I remembered my teeth slicing through my tongue, giving the sense that my mouth then my head then the whole car was filling with blood—then, strobing pain, and the feeling of wanting to undo my seat belt and escape and not being able to.
But did I remember being cut out of the car? Did I remember skateboarders using us as an impromptu ramp? The sirens resembling the finale of a rave?
No, I had no idea what had happened—no memory whatsoever of the crash or its aftermath. There would have been sirens, though—but all I had was Ghislaine’s cool reportage.
—Catastrophe, she said. And they are in the car together. Voilà. That is why I am leaving. If you want a slice of my mind, I am obsess-freak over this.
I wanted to ask her more about the crash. But Ghislaine said something about another glass of wine then went to the bathroom.
Her phone was on the table. Jerome’s name was beside a button and I pushed the button. I could have been calling for the waiter or a taxi but no. I was actually calling Jerome. On the screen there were more strange symbols—Jerome’s photo and his details all laid out. You may have asked me to get blood from the phone as much as stop the call but I managed it without knowing how. Remembering [email protected] was less of a challenge than stopping the call.
Ghislaine returned. She sat down with a smile, making no mention of the fact that she had removed the mascara from her eyes. You weren’t supposed to exercise in make-up anyway. She upended the last pale drops of wine into her mouth then suggested another drink—but I could not have stomached any more milk. Now from my old friend Ghislaine I wanted nothing but escape.
My First Letter to Eagleback
[email protected]: That was me at your door. That was me at the school. But things have changed. We have so much to talk about. Everything etc. I am not the woman I was. I don’t remember a thing. I am alive but I don’t know how. I talk strangely and I don’t remember much but everything else is the same. I have a sweet tooth now. So be prepared for sweetness. I smell like a barn though, no matter what I do. But I am the same as before. I imagine our perfect day together. I wouldn’t smell that bad, I’d make sure of that. I’d smell like fresh fruit. No, ripe fruit. How about that? Ripe fruit. I’ll leave the rest up to you. I saw you and something changed. I knew you when I saw you. I know that I know you. We all want to find ourselves. We all want to find love. Don’t you? This might mean nothing to you but it means a lot to me. Do you still believe in love? I believe in love. If you meet me you will know. You will understand like I understood as soon as I saw you. Yes, it is true that I haven’t been well and that I am not well. But I will get better. I will wait here for you to reply. It doesn’t matter how long it takes. I can wait.
Best regards.
Loose Change
I wanted to remember holidays I’d taken and the impressive places I’d been. The diary had said Malta and Arles. Arles? These were just names. I hoped that at least there’d been meadows and wild flowers—in summer sunshine of course. I did my best to conjure those moments from the never-nice eleventh. In some respects my life was a holiday anyway, in the same way that children are always on holiday but they don’t know it. When was the first time I worked? Real work with meetings and bought coffees.
I couldn’t remember anything, anywhere—not even Arles, certainly not Malta, but I was always inventing places I had to be. Apart from finding an internet café where I could write to Eagleback there was nowhere I had to be. On my second morning waking up in the cellar I did what you shouldn’t do, although it didn’t occur to me not to. I begged.
The competition to patrol the cashpoints on the best streets was immense—the ATM on the junction of Bretagne and Turenne in the Marais was the most sought-after. It was beginners luck when I found the patch unmanned. I spent seven straight hours cross-legged on the ground, going into a trance after the first hour.
More questions for Hippolyte & co. My toothbrush looks old, how old is good? What colour is good when I wipe? I saw a picture of myself and I wanted to stick pins in it. Does everyone do that? Can I ask something else? Paris is for lovers, but it’s not even a nice place to live in. What is romance? Should I cry more? Should I clean the plughole? Tampons ruin the mood, don’t they? Is it possible to have sex with someone you don’t love? What if I don’t want to have sex at all? Can I just say so?
It was a long day—I could have given birth in that time—and it took great effort to sit so still and consider the news about the crash. It felt better to have a specific cause for my memory loss. It could have been a number of things—better a crash than being bedridden after some unnamed trauma.
Customers from the bakery on Rue Debelleyme dropped off food—not only sandwiches but salads—without slowing down or speaking. I thanked them like mad although I don’t know why they expected me to eat salad. I kept my eyes closed most of the time anyway and the coins piled up.
I was staring at a fixed point on the pavement when I heard a familiar voice.
—Beats working in a restaurant anyway.
Daniel was standing before me. Delighted with my profitable day’s work—and dizzy with exhaustion—I waved him away. Such tenderness as remained between us was carried in his attempt to lift me off the ground. After a full day of sitting there, it was, I imagine, akin to hauling a corpse.
He was on his way to Le Baron Rouge to stock up on wine from the barrels.
—Wine doesn’t agree with me, I said.
—I don’t remember that.
Daniel, of course, was being deadpan. And I, of course, was incapable of being strategic.
Le Baron Rouge was wooden and listing and the barmen were leaning to compensate, as if they had just come ashore from a long time spent at sea. The bar wasn’t busy—the street was full of people, passing through, yakking—so we sat inside. The change in my pocket was a nice reminder of my successful day. Daniel wanted to toast to that and to forgetting he was supposed to be upset with me after my behaviour at his apartment.
—What do you want to drink? I said.
—Ask the man, Daniel said. He’ll tell you what’s good.
Something was slamming itself against the middle of my forehead but I ignored it. I went up and asked for any old white, a litre of it.
There was a young woman sitting on a stool at the end of the bar. Her head was bowed—her bare arms reaching out from the fashionable coat she was sporting as a cape. There had to be a reason she was inside on such a golden evening. The glass she was drinking wasn’t her first and from the way she was attacking it she was intent on another. I knew, though, that she was waiting for someone. She was watching the door.
The memories weren’t unwelcome but they did arrive without warning—in the way of a sudden sore throat. It was so much more powerful than reading about yourself in a diary.
I remembered a visit to Aligre market just next door to Le Baron Rouge—we had been awake all night and we were the first people there, watching the traders set up in their sleep. I could see Eagleback clearly. His skin was not troubled in any way, not back then, the beard was lighter—he must have grown it since the crash—and the hair shorter and scratchier. His arms were around me and he was laughing at something I was saying. I was wearing cat’s eye sunglasses and orange suede ankle boots that I fussed over when the fishmongers began to sling their ice.
I knew it had been real, how we’d kissed until my chin bled, how we made no arrangements, there was never any talk of them, how it was acknowledged without saying a thing that we were hiding in plain sight at food trucks or in Le Baron Rouge. Every day somewhere new. It seemed to me now that we were surrounded by a beautiful bubble of love. But the memories began to fade at the exact moment Eagleback went to speak. In the clutter of it all, I could picture the damn cauliflower, I could hear the traders’ calls, I could hear the ice skittering across the market
floor. But, attempting to recall what was said—and what was heard—was as impossible as fixing a postage stamp to a broken heart.
Daniel did his best with the wine. He called for some cheese to help force it down. We were there so long so the rinds started to pespire in the heat.
—Hey, he said. Do you ever wonder where you came from?
—Do you?
—I know where I’m from. Never wonder about your family?
—Nope.
He spat out a cheese rind.
—It’s not like I’m asking you to take part in a gangbang, he said. It’s simple curiosity. What if they’re wondering about you?
I laughed in Daniel’s face—a laugh as withering as time-lapse photography. It had one effect, though. He changed the subject.
—It’s so hot here, he said. Even the wine is sweating. What do you say we get out of town for the weekend?
—Arles, I said.
—Where it’s even hotter than here? I was kind of thinking Ireland, but you’d need a passport. My folks have a house on Île de Ré. What if it’s available?
—No, I said. Arles.
Unstory
June 15th 2011, Hotel du Nord-Pinus. Arles has everything, even a bull ring, Jerome said. Which may be filled with enormous pink rabbits for all we’ve seen of it. This weekend is what life is supposed to be like. Life without life. I wasn’t feeling well, but being on a train together and checking in to a hotel was a dream. Cue an incident in the hotel room—some crying, a call to reception—and now Jerome is asleep and I’m writing this just to stay awake, just to be here. Tum-te-tum. Anyway, he’ll wake up and then maybe we’ll see the doctor and get some more sleep. No one will ever make the mistake of calling us a couple, yet look at us now and all you will see is two lovers—even for these two days, that’s what we are. What can I do but hug my knees and wait for him to wake up?
June 16th 2011, Marseille-Paris TGV. It’s something to see our names side by side on our seat reservations. I’ve taken a photograph—because I can’t believe it—and I’m looking at it now, although our names are slightly blurred, as if we’re travelling too fast through time. As we change at Marseille, Jerome, who hasn’t spoken much since we checked out of the Nord-Pinus, says, What if we just stay here and don’t go back to Paris? That fat guy wanted to sell us his restaurant. What if we take him up on his offer? We could live in that hotel, I say. I’d love to live in a hotel for a while. The penthouse. Great view of the rooftops. We did get to the bull ring in the end. We climbed to the top for the most succulent sunset ever—I thought it was digitally manipulated. Jerome was for once wearing the T-shirt I’d bought him. I suppose it’s unfair to buy him things he can’t wear except when we’re together. He’s sitting across from me now. I’ve never seen him so mellow, so wiped out. Me too. There is a lot to talk about but I won’t alarm him with anything more taxing than penthouse talk. This means we are either revealing ourselves completely or tapering towards a last goodbye at the station. I don’t know what’s going to happen when we’re back in Paris. It’s not that I kid myself that what happened last night will make it any different. There isn’t much to say that we haven’t already discussed. Jerome will want to leave things as they are. We’ll pull into Gare de Lyon, he’ll hail a taxi and so will I.
Ms Of Course Not
There was the sense of having dug closer to the core of the planet. The light was denser in the south and the Hotel Nord-Pinus oozed the appropriate kind of mystery. The lobby was gauzy and smelling of the hereafter—although I’d never seen one there was an air of a monastery for people who cared about their sunglasses and their luggage. I was instructed by a departing German to take a good look at a glass case filled with pictures of Picasso and bullfighters and Warren Beatty and whatever. But the German was wide of the mark—walking and looking took so much effort in the heat.
I settled in an ailing armchair while Daniel checked us in, then went straight to the room to shower. The other guests checking in were either doing so reverently or in disappointment. One couple—vociferously South African—were mewling about the cost of parking.
—I’d like to check out right away, said the man.
—But you’ve just checked in, said the woman on reception. Her skin was astonishingly weathered—a riverbed at the bottom of a dry canyon—and it looked as if she spent a lot of money trying to combat this. Her hair had been braided loosely and very carefully.
—Let me speak to the owner.
—I am the owner, she said.
—I want to check out.
—You’ve just checked in.
—You can’t detain us against our will.
—I don’t wish to, said the owner. But you have just checked in.
A truce was called when the South Africans accepted the offer of a free cup of coffee on the terrace overlooking Place du Forum, where earlier we had passed a young guy dressed as a Roman centurion. Whatever he was doing in that outfit—a long shift of driving away barbarians—he was finished for the day. He was downing Fanta and his eyes were bloodshot from the incensey joint he was smoking. I was against the idea but Daniel mentioned my day begging on Rue de Bretagne and gave the guy some coins. The centurion swooned as he examined the donation, then laughed and spat at our feet. Even now, indoors, I could feel him staring at us.
I took my opportunity to speak with the owner as she made the coffee. I asked her if she remembered me. As if to preserve energy in the heat, she spoke absently and faintly.
—I see a lot of people. I am sorry.
—His name was Jerome. Cooper. That is his name. And he had a beard. He probably did. And I was me. We were here as a couple. Not as a couple, but as a couple.
—Like you are now? What would you like me to say?
—Did anything happen?
—We get a lot of marriage proposals here, if that’s what you’re asking.
—Did anything bad happen?
—Nothing bad happens here. Ms … ?
—Of course not, I said.
Daniel didn’t like the bedroom.
—It’s kind of chic, he said. But it’s a little bare for what you pay. Why did you want to stay here again?
—Picasso stayed here.
—I bet Picasso liked a shower. Do you want to sit in a hot bath on a day like today?
Not a great deal was possible other than sex. Once we’d had cold baths and made love without disturbing the bedclothes, I went downstairs and tried one more time with the owner. Of course, if she knew me she would have said. But no. She adjusted her braids. This and the frown directed at the iced tea on the reception desk said my investigation was over. She would speak to me only of where to go for dinner.
—Maybe you like this place near the amphitheatre? Not Provençal so much, so you will like it. Your man will love it more than you maybe. But this is fine.
—Do you go there?
—I eat here.
—Should we eat here then?
—It’s better if you go there, she said.
I knew where I was going or I thought I did. But it was hard to drop my pace to match Daniel’s. He was softened by sex and he was trudging—but I had been spooked by the stoned centurion and wanted to keep moving. It took us ages and we were filthy with sweat before we found the restaurant.
La Boucherie was presided over by a prosperous dog and his happy owners, a couple from Lyon called Loïc and Fanny. On top of being too hot, Loïc was producing a powerful broth of meat sweats. He immediately said he remembered me but only after mistakenly welcoming Daniel back and asking him if he still wanted to buy the restaurant—Fanny still came as part of the deal. Daniel was, I could tell, playing along by considering the offer. Fanny was in her husband’s opinion the best meat cook in all of Provence. As he took in the room—greasy tiles, vital o
rgans on a marble slab—Daniel seemed to agree.
Loïc went behind the bar and bustled impressively for such a fat man, doling out raw beef heart and ghostly white cheese to anyone who crossed his path. It was manly, difficult stuff. I nearly asphyxiated myself on some of the challenging bread.
—Sure that guy doesn’t know you? Daniel said. Maybe in one of your past lives you were a Camargue cowboy.
These flights of fancy appeared whenever Daniel felt like he was fading into the background.
Loïc was feeding the uneaten food to the dog, but it was nearly forty degrees and even the animal wasn’t hungry. Daniel began making quick work of the next course—slyly he dropped a piece of braised chicken neck into my unwittingly upturned palm.
—Well, you can do better than bread, he said.
I dumped the meat—a greasy mess resembling chewing tobacco—in my mouth, where it sat until I spat it out a minute or two later. I knew in my heart that scenes like this one were associated somehow with Eagleback, and that I had been here before and, what’s more, had left little trace.
I looked at Loïc’s smiling face as he grappled with our next course and a fractious assortment of objects from my past began to appear. A waffled white dressing gown, a blood stain on a wall, another on marble, a full glass of water by an undressed bed. I couldn’t explain it to Daniel and wouldn’t have anyway, that the past—which had been light years away—was now forcing itself upon me and might at any moment arrive and physically haul me out of the restaurant.
I was starting to remember being here with Eagleback. I remembered Loïc’s wheezing, his vapours, his morbid waddle. I remembered the way he ogled his wife and his chubby hands on her colossal arse. I remembered the food and the way it kept on coming and coming until you begged for it to stop. I remembered enjoying, for once in my life, mouldy things and the sinister texture of the ligaments, ears and gizzards. I remembered the tumblers and the sour wine. I remembered we were pretty pleased with ourselves at first. It was early but we had by no means been the first to arrive and we squeezed into the last available table. I remembered snail shells and red wine in an ice bucket and I remembered crying. But I wasn’t eating then either—not that I refused to eat but that I wasn’t able. Eagleback seemed to be waiting in silence for someone else to arrive. I didn’t remember leaving the restaurant although I knew that it was the end of so much—options, for one thing, whatever they were.
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